


In Your Hands

by chooken



Category: Westlife
Genre: Anal Fingering, Complicated Relationships, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4472312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicky wants Mark too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Hands

Nicky knows this is wrong. He does. There's no way it couldn't be.

Mark is his bandmate. His friend. A confidant. An ally. That lad who stands next to him on this crazy trip, who snores above him on the bus, who sneaks cigarettes while Nicky watches so management don't catch him and give him a bollocking.

He's not supposed to be on top of him while Nicky writhes on the sheets, a hand stroking him slow and hard.

“Yes...” He whispers. Yes to it all. To everything. Everything Mark can give because Jesus, those eyes, those sinful fucking lips. Hand moving faster on his shaft while he grinds into the mattress and whispers Mark's name. Over and over. Before it had been a bit embarrassing and he'd kept quiet, like admitting that Mark was the one doing this to him was way too much, even while he was right in the middle of it. But oh god.

“Mark... yes... please...” He arches into it, sudden twisting pleasure too perfect, like those fingers know exactly how he needs it. How he wants it. How, when he thinks of Mark, he's on edge already before his pants are even down. Before his cock is even out, half hard and desperate and needing a hand on him. All over him. The cool of the room and the crisp sheets paling in comparison to the sensation of a thumb pressing into the slit and sopping up leaking fluid.

It touches to his mouth and he tastes himself. Groans. Twists when the hand is back on him again and Jesus, he's wanted this all day. Wanted it since Mark looked over him at breakfast, eyes innocent. Everything totally normal because, yep, they're just two friends sitting down at breakfast with two other friends while he tries not to imagine peeling every single item of clothing off Mark one by one and kissing every tiny bit of skin revealed. Tasting him. Breathing him in. Trying not to embarrass himself two hours later when they're in a photoshoot and all he can smell is Mark next to him, trying not to be too obvious when they're all bunched up together and there are fingers on his shoulder.

And then going back up to his room. Hesitating for a moment because he knows this is wrong. Thinks he might be able to stop. To close the door, shut it all out, and try to find something else that makes him feel half the way that this does. Something that makes him tremble afterwards, that makes him arch and moan and feel so so empty and lost inside that he thinks he could say something. End this in a heartbeat and just be honest with someone for once, even if that someone is himself.

But then he might not have this. It might ruin it. Even if this is empty and angry and tinged at the corner with such self-hatred he wishes it didn't feel so good.

“God... oh... fuck me...” He mutters, eyes screwing shut when he realises how not ready for that idea he is. Which is the worst part, of course, that he's not sure he can set that part of him aside. Certainly can't talk to Mark about it, admit that while all he wants is the younger boy kissing him wetly, fucking him slow and hard and deep, he's way too chicken to go there. To make that admission and then follow through. Knows that as much as he wants Mark, he's bloody terrified of what that means.

A finger circles his entrance like it's waiting for him to make some acquiescence, and after a second he nods and feels it go in. Feels the electric stretch, muscles trying to reject it with a shudder. He's not going further than this. Definitely not. Too much. But Jesus, other hand's on his cock, still stroking and it feels so _good_.

“Uh...” He cries out, feels his toes curl on the sheets. “Uh... _Mark...!_ ”

Finger goes in. Further. Fuck. God. It _hurts_ but fuck he wants it. Wants it dipping that little bit deeper, spreading apart walls that feel like steel, like they shouldn't be spreading around the questing touch but they seem to know what he wants more than he does, especially when the finger finds something that feels _really_ good. Pressure and bliss screaming through while he cries Mark's name and rocks back onto it, the other hand getting sticky and slick where he's oozing helplessly over grasping fingers and he's going to fall the fuck apart.

Slow movement finding the right spot. Where it stops being amazing and just becomes everything. Blinding him. Roaring in his ears and turning the whole room into one tiny pinprick of darkness, Mark's eyes intense at the centre. Nicky knows those eyes so well he sees them in his dreams. Knows the damp flicker of a tongue over cherry lips.

“Right there.” He whimpers, lost in the stroke. He thinks he can feel the whorls of Mark's finger, feel them roughing over his prostate like sandpaper and silk and he just _can't_. Not while everything's tightening and he feels the thumb on his head find _just_ the right _spot_ , and god, oh god, oh Jesus, please, he can't...

“Right there.” He gasps again. “Oh god, please, right there, don't stop, I...” He cries out again, spine arching painfully off the bed, head tipped right back into the pillows while he blurts out Mark's name like a prayer and comes, ribbons of wet release spooling over familiar fingers and legs shifting like they're trying to grab onto something. A waist maybe, or shoulders, he doesn't even know, but that finger is still moving carefully, almost jabbing him and if he doesn't stop coming soon he might actually die.

But everything about Mark makes him like this. The touches, the smiles, the little smirking nods like they're both in on a joke together and it's _everything_. It's all he's ever wanted while he's been wandering about being determinedly straight. As though the one box he's never wanted to tick is suddenly the only one he has, because Mark transcends all of that. Which doesn't make it remotely okay.

“Oh god.” He manages to gasp finally. The finger's still in him, while he pants and wheezes on the bed, eyes on the hotel room ceiling and wanting to feel him more than ever, real and deep inside him. Can't do it. Can't take whatever fucked up risk or violation his brain's decided it would be.

I love you. I want you. Please god, please. I'm so sorry. Never meant for this to happen. So sorry. I love you.

The finger slides out a second later, wipes on the sheets. Nicky doesn't look at it, is too afraid of what it might mean. The other hand is wiped on the sheets too. He folds his own hands behind his head, an awkward giggle tripping off his lips when he looks down at the mess on his stomach.

“Nicky?”

He's broken from the bliss at the knock on the door. Looks up, sudden panic and shame raking across his naked form, and he's just glad the door's locked.

“Yeah?”

“We're going to lunch in a minute! You want to come?”

He swallows, looks down at himself.

“I just need a shower!”

“Cool!” Mark calls back. “Meet us downstairs in ten, yeah?”

“Thanks, Marky!” He calls back, covering his eyes so he doesn't have to look at himself, at the empty room. At the slow drift of the curtains, even the breeze apparently mocking him.

He climbs into the shower a minute later, leaning his forehead against the cold tiles while the evidence is washed away.


End file.
